forty-five

Every house on my block has at least one light on. Upstairs or downstairs, people are wrapping up their day, stretching on their couches, checking the movie times, not doing the dishes yet. Most jack-o’-lanterns are still out, and the fake cotton webs are all sagging from last night’s rain. My chest won’t decide whether it feels light or heavy, but either way, I feel like something is pulling me home. I look back at the street, but their car is gone. Our mailbox is open, and when I reach inside, I find Eva’s key. She didn’t give me my camera either. It’s too late to go after her, and I don’t want to bother everybody right now. She knows where I am. I slip the key back in my pocket and make a mental note to put it somewhere safe when I get upstairs. I stop at the door and peek through my window before going in.

The Shabbat candles are lit on the dining room table and Mom, Dad, and Adam are sitting around a pile of pizza delivery boxes. Friday’s come and gone, but the special olive plate is out and covered in plastic hot sauce containers. There’s an extra place setting, for me. Their faces look softer in the light; Adam’s napkin across his lap, Mom’s rings, Dad’s plate still clean. I blink my eyes like a lens, because I know everything changes. When my mother answers the door, I collapse in her arms, babbling between sobs that I’m sorry I’m late, that I should have lit the candles last Friday. My father and my friend wait patiently behind us, and Adam suggests maybe he should go home, but I tell him he doesn’t have to, that I’m sorry about him too. My father tells us all to settle down and stop being sorry and eat some Shabbat pizza instead, and so we do, talking and laughing and ripping our hair out about how the hell does a sculpture just fall when you push it.